


Twelve Skybound Saints

by SecondStarfall (beantiger)



Series: The Second Starfall Stories [49]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Art, Blacksmithing, Competition, Death, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Fantasy, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Giants, Horoscopes, Lesbian Character, Medieval, Mild Gore, Moon, Mountains, Nonbinary Character, One Shot Collection, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Prophecy, Rabbits, Rebirth, Royalty, Saints, Siblings, Stars, Storytelling, Talking Animals, Twins, Weapons, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25420378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beantiger/pseuds/SecondStarfall
Summary: I think your mother would say these tales aren’t true, but I wouldn’t pass on lies to you, little princess.***Marlesse de la Mer recounts the twelve stories of the Althussian zodiac.
Series: The Second Starfall Stories [49]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582975
Kudos: 4





	1. SAINT BALTHAZAR: JANUARY

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know Althussant has a zodiac, because of course it does? No? Yes? ([Read more about it here.](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Althussian_zodiac)) Enjoy this little set of tales about the zodiac's twelve star-saints, as told by our favorite chief guard, Marlesse. I'll try to update this at least once a month until it's done.
> 
>  **SUGGESTED REREADING:** These tales stand alone, and you don't need the rest of the _Starfall_ stories (IMO) to get them. For longtime fans, I assume you mostly know who Marlesse is by now; Honorine is Queen Alexandrine's firstborn with the dragon Amaderu and the tulip-farmer Galien. (See stories like ["Empathy at Midnight".](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218832))
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨

**FEARLESSNESS ◆ INNOVATION ◆ REBELLION**

_—There are no good war stories, I’m sorry to say. I know you wanted one tonight. But I do have star-stories._

_—Papa Ami already told me all the star-stories, Auntie Mar._

_—Hm. I don’t think he would have told you these ones. They’re not very…noble, or royal, or dragon-like. These are ones that we tell in the streets and in the fields: your papa Galien can vouch for that, I’m sure. I think your mother would say these tales aren’t true, but I wouldn’t pass on lies to you, little princess._

_—I believe you. Tell me?_

_—Of course. This first star-story is about a rabbit...or, actually, a constellation in the shape of a rabbit. You can see him just above the horizon at the beginning of the year, leaping with a broken collar around his throat. I’ll have to show him to you._

_—A rabbit? Why’s he up there?_

_—Well, he’s a saint. They’re all saints in these star-stories. But this rabbit..._

***

His name was Balthazar, and he was the smallest rabbit who ever lived. Smaller than your Auntie Val! They used a single strand of human hair to craft his collar. The angels who captured him, I mean. Can you believe it?

Anyway, these angels kept a great Collection on the top of Mount Goatsage. Thousands of the most valuable critters in the land, tethered and caged—or rather, critters the angels _thought_ were valuable. Remember that no one soul is better than any other, little princess. 

But, ah, the angels didn’t believe that. They stole away anything bright and shiny to hoard, like magpies do. As our little friend Balthazar was a son of the bright side of the moon, the angels loved him the most.

***

One day Balthazar would become a saint. During this story, though, he was just a kit—a kit that always hunched down and shook while his fiery captors danced across the world. When the angels noticed his fear, they’d pick him up and show him to their worshippers, their grins proud and fierce. With his silvery fur all aglow, as you can imagine, Balthazar looked like a scared little pearl in the angels’ palms.

He expected someone to eventually rescue him, though no help came, sad to say. He expected someone to break all the Collection creatures free—the basilisks, the golden cats, the six-headed dragons—but that didn’t happen, either. Angels were, and are, just so horrid. No one wanted to risk it. Even Balthazar’s good friend Moreau Axolotl, who’d once served in the army of the Kelp King, knew he couldn’t help the Collection by himself.

In the end, Balthazar decided (with a big sigh) that he would have to be his own hero. I think about that all the time.

***

They planned, the two of them—Moreau and Balthazar, I mean.

Then the fateful evening arrived, and... _whack!_ Moreau cleaved Balthazar’s hair-tether in two. (The axolotl, like all of his kind, carried an axe: hence axe-olotl. It’s true.) As Balthazar took off across the land, concealing himself among the fireflies, his captors discovered what had happened. Though they didn’t catch Balthazar, they crushed poor Moreau in their massive hands.

Balthazar wept. Terribly. It never occurred to him that he could’ve kept running and saved himself, because…because—

Yes, I’m alright, my princess. One moment.

Hm. Alright.

...because he didn’t risk Moreau’s life for his own—ah—selfish heart. He truly wanted to save the whole Collection now. So a few days after his escape reached his destination: a cottage. It stood alone on an island in the midst of a lake so deep that even angels could not cross it.

The cottage belonged to an artist renowned even among the talking animals in the Collection. Balthazar crawled through a crack in the wall and asked him for a painting of the biggest, most brilliant moon possible. The artist agreed out of sheer kindness—because people like that do exist, my princess—but would need a certain pigment to create its wondrous silver light.

So: Balthazar shed his fur forever. With this, the artist made magnificent moonglow paint, and Balthazar no more looked like a shimmering, shining lantern in the grass. 

Heroism seems so often to require sacrifice, which is another thing I think about all the time. Maybe it’s better to just be a princess, or an Auntie Mar.

***

Angels are fierce, and bloodthirsty, and a lot of other frightening things. But they’re not very intelligent, or so I’m told, and you’ll see why.

When Balthazar dragged the artist’s painting up to the highest hill he could find, the angels thought that the moon had fallen to the earth—despite the real moon clearly hanging above them. Even your Auntie Mar is smarter than _that._ Those terrible creatures became distracted bickering over how to replace the moon...really! And their arguments carried on so long that Balthazar used the opportunity to release every last soul in the Collection. 

He gnawed through his fellows’ tethers, through the bars on their cages...and the whole time he wanted to give up, actually. His heart felt heavier than the painting he’d dragged halfway across the world from the artist’s cottage. How he missed Moreau, his axolotl companion.

But heroes need willpower, and our friend Balthazar knew nothing else at this point. Once he freed the Collection critters, an idea blossomed in his mind. He led the Collection to the artist’s cottage, where every jackalope and death-dog and drop-bear shed their magic. The artist protested, but the Collection insisted, and now the artist had the materials to mix the most glorious paints of all time. 

And the Collection? Well, they no longer had any value to the angels without their magic. Balthazar was quite crafty. Small creatures usually are. Remember that!

***

One thing about artists, my princess: just because they’re famous doesn’t make them very wealthy, sadly, except maybe in friends. But not too long after Balthazar freed the Collection, the artist’s magical pigments attracted a whole load of patrons. That’s another word for _people with money._ So the artist became rich beyond his wildest dreams.

Yet because of his incredible kindness, he wanted to repay Balthazar, who had prompted him to make the moon-painting in the first place. The artist told his local songbirds, who told Balthazar, and the little rabbit came again to the cottage in the midst of the lake.

“You gave me so much success,” said the artist, noticing the mournful way Balthazar carried himself. “Tell me what I can do for you, dear rabbit.”

Balthazar told him. The artist set to work creating a magnificent painting of Moreau Axolotl. When he finished, it looked so life-like that you would have thought Moreau stood there against the canvas.

They dragged it out under the moon—the real moon. Then Moreau emerged from the painting as if the angels had never crushed him. Imagine that.

Now—there’s another story about where Moreau went when he died, but I can tell you that next time it’s my turn to tuck you in. Instead, I’ll just leave you with this picture in your mind: the three dancing in the night for hours, Moreau and Balthazar and the artist. 

Maybe you’ll have good...good dreams.

Good night, Honorine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** Another set of stories that have been patiently waiting on my list for the greater part of three months. Whew!
> 
> Because I'm winging so much of this universe, every year I plan on taking November and/or December to go back and standardize all the stories—solidifying canon details, sure, but also smaller and more subtle things, like bringing speech patterns into line. Marlesse sounds much different here than in early stories. She's still the same character, but I know her so much better now, so I see her less as a symbol or archetype and more as a friend/sister/daughter. This applies to basically every SecStar character who's been around since the first handful of tales, except maybe Queen Alexandrine, who has always sounded like Rarity the pony.
> 
> On one hand, I like to imagine that every story has a different Varyan narrator with different biases (and sources), so details like speech patterns may vary. And so I do plan on leaving a few minor discrepancies for y'all to argue about on Twitter 9.0 after I'm dead. But the way a character speaks—unless the storyteller really wants to emphasize a certain trait—I feel should be mostly cohesive. 
> 
> P.S: I know the picture shows a hare! I'm very anal about animal details. But in some parts of Althussant the locals believe Balthazar was a hare and not a rabbit. Some believe he was both, and therefore had the most banal shapeshifting ability imaginable. 
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1MTJi12E6vJ0TPmtPngG6-EbXLa06Tb0s2-LfWKETzy4/edit?usp=sharing) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://youneedawiki.com/app/page/1eTLPfjSDKXOWAgJqZ9fc7cFh-CpJKigdqr0VPB5DH2g?p=1poOqxYIoKHsU29l2qZT16-eN7Emt4_5e)] ✨


	2. SAINT ZERIZE: FEBRUARY

**INNOCENCE ◆ DETERMINATION ◆ IDEALISM**

_—Want to know something? Come here to the window for a moment. See now: each one of those little stars in every constellation has its own name and story, too. And they’re different in other countries, those stories. In fact, the constellations are different everywhere. Around the world, people look up at the night and find things you and I couldn’t possibly imagine._

_—That’s…_

_—Complicated? Get back into bed, now, dear princess. Hm. Complicated...I suppose I didn’t think of it that way, but it is. When I was your age, I only learned about the star-saints, since they’re Althussian stories. And it’s hard to find books from abroad._

_—But you do know all about stars now. Their names, in all kinds of languages. Auntie Val says you do._

_—True. I learned overseas...in Exuniai. There was someone there who taught by song…_

_—Will you teach me the songs too?_

_—Maybe. But not tonight. They’re full of energy, like the air before a storm. They’ll rile you up, and the last thing the castle needs is a riled-up princess at nine o’clock at night, don’t you think?_

_—Bah._

_—I know, I know. I’m Chief Marlesse of No-Fun-Land. But I’ll tell you another star-saint story, if that’s alright with you._

***

Some will tell you that Saint Zerize was a giant, and some will tell you that Saint Zerize was a big, big suit of armor that lived and breathed and felt joy and sadness. But my mother used to say she was a giant _in_ a suit of armor. That always seemed right to me—probably because I am also a giant in a suit of armor.

But before Zerize Ereta found her place among the Second-month stars...

She traveled Althussant with the old ritualist Brother Gaspar, performing all sorts of acts we’d call miracles today. Zerize, however, didn’t desire fame, fortune, or even a lovely little wife to hold. Her thoughts never even fell on sainthood. Rather, she only wanted to find her reason for being—her true place in life. 

Thus far, nothing had really fit the giant. Poor thing. She tried to learn the names of flowers and trees, but her memory often failed her. She tried to build houses for vagrants and wanderers, but the foundations crumbled beneath her feet. She even tried warfare, but—ah—found that least suitable of all, despite the armor she constantly wore. 

So one hundred years Zerize looked for her purpose, eternally young, stumbling about the country here and there. One hundred years...and then she and Brother Gaspar arrived in the town of Feriver. 

Your purpose, little princess, is one day to rule, and mine is to protect you and your sisters and your mother and your Aunt Val—but Zerize had nothing at all. She felt aimless, like an unmoored, unmanned boat. Zerize meant to move on from the area quickly, as she didn’t want to talk to anyone. But at one hundred and twenty years of age, Brother Gaspar needed rest.

“And look, Zerize-girl! We have entertainment,” he said, gesturing with one gnarled hand to Feriver’s flat common grounds. There, the townsfolk were pitching a massive tent. And, consequently, Zerize and Brother Gaspar stayed.

***

Now, up in Feriver they have this grand event, the Winter’s Iron competition, about once every decade. You might have heard of it, Honorine: all the greatest smiths in Althussant stream into Feriver, bringing forth their best work. Singing daggers, and goblets that scream in the presence of poison, and nails that would hold a cabin together in a typhoon. Wondrous, wondrous things now lost to the years.

Even way, way back then, in the time of the saints, in times unknown, Feriver held the Winter’s Iron competition. Those who won had sole access to wintersiron ore for a decade. If you don’t know—wintersiron, when properly forged, could cut holes in the world. You only ever wanted someone deserving to have something like that, if only because a good tailor is often hard to find.

***

Zerize and Brother Gaspar slept in an abandoned barn on the outskirts of Feriver for three days and three nights. They had grown used to those kinds of lodgings, as they were the only kind that comfortably fit a giant and her companion. (And, goodness, do I know how they feel.) The old ritualist dreamed of mountains, and Zerize of nothing at all, which she welcomed after the great disappointment that kept piercing her like arrows.

Outside, it took the folk of Feriver those same three days and three nights to erect the Winter’s Iron tent. Melancholy had slowed their work.

“Ah, such terrible news, Zerize-girl,” Brother Gaspar said on the fourth morning after fishing for gossip in the streets. “The Duchess Cassandre Tessier has passed away! A wasting disease, a long wasting disease. The heralds will arrive shortly with the proclamation.”

You see, the Duchess who ruled Feriver traditionally judged the Winter’s Iron competition. After Duchess Cassandre’s death, her daughter, the new Duchess, would have taken up the mantle. But her daughter was, perhaps, four years old at most. Imagine your sister Tristenne attempting to judge such an important event. It wouldn’t do, I’d say.

Nothing like this had ever happened before, and Feriver practically boiled over in panic. But Brother Gaspar had an idea, which he offered up to the town—

The giant Zerize would make a perfect substitute judge, what with her dedication to her armor and all. Feriver’s residents accepted quickly, for one because they had no other choice, but also because Zerize had a reputation for accidental heroism. Back then, good news still traveled faster than bad news, so the Feriverians knew all about her little miracles.

She had never intended to help so many people in her life while failing at everything she tried, but she did. For a hundred years she did.

So Zerize lumbered over to the Winter’s Iron tent.

“Try your best!” cheered Brother Gaspar.

Zerize had grown tired of trying her best. But she said, “For your sake, for you, who has been with me for a century—I’ll do it.”

***

Luck was on her side that day: she only had to choose between three works there in the tent.

The first piece was a wrought iron statue of King Cadmarre, your many-times great-grandfather. Zerize shivered to look upon it, so lifelike was the rendering of giantsblood on his hands. When she lifted the statue up, it received thunderous applause.

The second piece was a claymore that spoke the many frightful wisdoms of the merciless Saint Colombe when you sliced it through the air. The townspeople of Feriver were not very close to their saints or spirits, so the sword, thankfully, only received a few scattered cheers.

And the third piece? Two mountaineers’ picks, which would comfort you aloud as you climbed. Yes—that is all, really. They possessed a kind of beauty in their simplicity, I’m told, but the townspeople stared at them with a heavy silence.

Zerize chose those picks. They reminded her of Brother Gaspar, who always dreamed of mountains. 

And the Feriverians forever remembered how she ignored the clear favorite—how she couldn’t read the room, as the saying goes. Once again, I know the feeling.

***

I’m happy to say that Zerize and Brother Gaspar didn’t have a mob sicced after them, though had they ever stepped foot back in Feriver, they would have received some nasty looks. They soon set out on the road once more, and Zerize said, “Ah, another failure, once again.”

“Do you think so? Or is it another thing you know not to waste your time trying again?” Brother Gaspar patted her knee, as that was as far up as he could reach. “Besides, did you see how the smith looked—the one whose picks you chose? I think you may have changed the course of their life for the better—you may have directed them down a river of joy over one of shame.”

“Do you think that’s my purpose?”

“It could be, Zerize-girl. Or maybe purpose is not so important. When I was young I caught an underlight—you know, those dratted dark bugs that come south from the Brightest Sovereignty every seven years—that told me I would climb a mountain. That was my life’s work, apparently. Well: here I am, one hundred and twenty, and I have climbed precisely _zero_ mountains. Yet I am pleased, just having traveled all of Althussant with a lovely companion.”

***

I left out a lot in this tale. Like how Zerize Ereta came into the world, or why her armor was so important to her, or how she grabbed ahold of immortality and sainthood, or the hundred thousand acts of kindness she performed unknowingly—like this one. But my mother used to always end this story by saying, _If you must look at anything besides your own feet, stare forward, not back._

So, a little about what happened after their stop at the Winter’s Iron competition—

Brother Gaspar did indeed end up climbing a mountain, because Zerize eventually grew so big that she became the Zerizian Mountains that protect this country, you see. And Gaspar scaled that great range with picks of wintersiron that the winning smith had sent him. And the smith’s husband, a tailor, sewed up the holes those picks left behind, so no harm would come to Zerize.

That was her purpose, and Brother Gaspar fulfilled his, and the smith and the smith’s husband found theirs, too. So I suppose my mother was right, and staring forward is the best course of action. 

If...you are able, of course.

At any rate—

Good night, Honorine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** My productivity has skyrocketed since my girlfriend's moved in with me, and while it may not always show up as new stories, it'll definitely show up as new wiki pages and other fun things. Yeehaw!
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


	3. SAINT GRANDFATHER: MARCH

**DUTY ◆ COMMUNITY ◆ MORALITY**

_—Auntie Mar...Mother said that King Cadmarre the First got rid of all the giants here in the kingdom. Saint Zerize was just a very big lady like you. Or a spirit. And no one could turn into a mountain._

_—That could be. If I listed off all the different ways to tell that story, you would be asleep before I got to the good parts. So would I, actually._

_—Bah. You said you wouldn’t tell me lies._

_—Well, she could have been a giant, too. One that got away from King Cadmarre. Or was protected by the stars themselves. It was still a good story regardless, I think. May I tell you another tonight?_

***

More weather spirits flutter around in the world than pigeons and crows, but _everyone_ knows the great Saint Grandfather.

Back in times unknown, he had taken root on Panglosse Isle where House Romilly rules today, as they did then. On that lovely island, surrounded by adoring hummingbirds and humans, he grew so high after the centuries that you would fall onto your rear trying to get a glimpse at his top.

Hm, I should’ve mentioned: he was a redwood tree. Saint Grandfather was a redwood tree, who could bring heavy rains or scatter clouds like fearful sheep.

***

The Romilly ritualists took care of Saint Grandfather, and Saint Grandfather took care of them. Like any good hero, he had compassion for those around him, and it ran so deep it seemed to throb in his roots—

Oh, but let me say this first. You’ll speak to many scholars in your life as a princess and a queen, Honorine. Some will tell you that a spirit has no real thoughts of feelings, and meeting one is sort-of like finding a rock in the shape of your mother’s face. You’d only see what you want to see, I mean.

That might be the case. But I still believe that Grandfather wanted to make his little humans happy more than anything. Call me silly.

So, because he could change the weather—as I said—he would take requests from the House Romilly ritualists. You know: breaking up droughts, making certain the sun shone on wedding days, things like that.

This is a story about two requests in particular.

***

One March long ago, it rained so much that the fish in the Lionseye Sea began to walk on land, if you can imagine that. Which was fine, because the humans weren’t walking around much at all—everyone in the kingdom either spent their time napping or weeping under the torrent.

Not the best weather if you wanted to get something _very_ important done. Especially if you were scared to do it.

Sister Anna, a ritualist in service to House Romilly, had that exact problem. As she climbed the hill where Saint Grandfather and his saplings surveyed the land, she bowed her shoulders and kept her gaze low. She hardly sensed the rain pattering against her cheeks. 

There was something she had to do, little princess, but the constant downpour had stolen away all of her determination.

“Dear Grandfather,” said Sister Anna, “I speak to you as one elder to another. I will be brief: I must leave House Romilly, and Panglosse Isle, and you. There is a little girl I love at the orphanage...one that I would adopt as my own if I could, but I cannot, Grandfather. My vows are at risk if I remain here. I must harden my heart and only in the sunshine may I do so.”

Concern rustled through Grandfather’s many needles, but he granted her wish.

The morning after seemed brighter than any that had come before it, and the sun, renewed, fried all the fish in the reeds. As House Romilly dined on dried salmon and trout, Sister Anna sailed away from Panglosse Isle. She thought: _In fact, in fact, let the light shine bright for all. Let everyone do what they must._

Grandfather heard that, too.

***

Now, Sister Anna was part of an order of ritualists that banned its members from having children. The Order of the Sweet Tempest, they were called. That’s a story in itself, but—ah, another day, another day. The rule, anyway, suited many of the order’s members just fine. But Sister Anna felt deprived as the years trudged on.

A child at the Panglosse Isle orphanage had captured her attention—Marlène was her name. She was just a bit older than you, this Marlène. Nine, maybe, at most. Quite a serious little girl, too, who kept to herself and built tiny knee-high houses of of twigs out in the woods all day. 

Yet when she laughed, Honorine! Her laugh (I’ve been told) was so rare and so powerful that all the hummingbirds on Panglosse Isle would stop beating their wings just to hear it.

How Sister Anna wanted to hear that laugh forever! But there was her duty to the spirits, and to her order…

Well, you’ll understand one day.

***

Hills and forests and swamps practically _glowed_ with brightness for years after Sister Anna made her request for sun. And...you know that warm, muggy feeling that beats down on the kingdom every summer? Gone, Honorine. The air itself dried out like laundry hanging from a string.

Yet drought never took hold of Althussant. The whole kingdom rejoiced at the miracle.

***

Meanwhile—

Because of her shyness, Marlène never quite found a family of her own. In fact, no one paid attention to her at all. No one was _cruel_ to her, to be clear, but—oh, Honorine—even her caretakers saw her as more of a ghost than a person. Only Sister Anna had seen Marlène’s true nature, and she had gone away.

So Marlène’s famous laughter drifted from her, and her dreams of building summer-houses for the nobles. 

Finally, by the time she had grown into a young woman, she had neatly put away emotion and imagination. She joined the Order of the Sweet Tempest, and, even in the never-ending light, became known for her stony, silent demeanor.

***

Meanwhile again—

Saint Grandfather sensed all of this happening with his far-reaching roots. He thought, in his treeish way: _I have made a grave mistake._ He didn’t mean to deprive Anna of a daughter, or Marlène of her joy, with his power. Even thousand-year-old trees have their regrets. Even saints.

None of his ritualists, however, had asked for any other weather. The rest of the kingdom seemed so gleeful. Anyway, he felt it was too late, now, to correct what he had done. 

That’s never the case, by the way—it is never too late, I mean.

***

In the spring of her twenty-third year, Marlène approached Grandfather much as Anna had before.

“Dear Grandfather,” said Marlène, now _Sister_ Marlène, “I speak to you as a youth to her respected elder...”

And she asked for something very familiar, little princess. Care to take a guess?

Ha! You know the rhythms of the story well! Yes. The sunshine had stolen _her_ determination away to leave Panglosse Isle, and she wanted terrible, dark rains to harden her heart. She wanted, badly, to put as much distance between herself and Panglosse as possible.

You see, on a night of a local baron’s wedding, a night of poor judgement, Marlène had a little too much wine. Her arms outstretched all bird-like, she danced and laughed around the party grounds, twirling and spinning. The reigning lady of Panglosse Isle, the Duchess Pascaline Romilly, heard that incredible laugh...and, as hummingbirds alighted on trees for miles around to listen, she fell deeply in love with Marlène. 

Not in the way Sister Anna did, though. Rather, she wished to make Marlène her wife until the end of their days.

Sister Marlène couldn’t allow that. As far as I know, the Sweet Tempest didn’t mind if its members had husbands and wives and partners. But Marlène didn’t think she was capable of loving Duchess Pascaline the way such a noblewoman deserved.

Ah, sorry, Honorine. That part always wets my eyes.

Anyway: Saint Grandfather, despite his wisdom, couldn’t read Marlène’s motives. He only knew that he might bring Marlène happiness if he called the rains again. So he did, and the next day, the Duchess awoke to a castle without Sister Marlène.

And Marlène, riding a carriage out to the capitol, thought: _In fact, in fact, let the torrent continue forever. Let everyone do what they must._

Right again! Grandfather heard that, too. It rained for weeks and months, and the fish walked out of the seas again, and so it goes.

***

Stray dogs informed Grandfather that Sister Marlène dutifully—and with sorrow—served in the capitol.

Whole armies of hummingbirds informed him that the heartbroken Duchess would not leave her chambers. 

The four winds informed him that Sister Anna had withered away in a mountain shrine, dreaming of the daughter she had forsaken.

In his guilt, Saint Grandfather lost track of time. The years leaked through him like sap. Yet the sun and moon continued to rise. Defiantly, almost. I am sad to say the world does not stop for anyone’s mistakes.

 _Perhaps,_ he thought, after near a decade, _perhaps if I return all things to balance, just as the days always pass…_

He called in rain-clouds and winds some days, and clear skies and heat on others. Then he waited to hear news of the Duchess, and Sister Anna, and Sister Marlène.

That is the end of this story.

***

I know, I know—it’s a strange one. I used to get just as mad when I was your age, listening to my mother tell it. Did Sister Marlène return home to Panglosse Isle? Did she and the Duchess Pascaline get married? And what about Sister Anna? Did she ever come back to Panglosse Isle and see the woman Marlène had become? And poor, poor Grandfather. He must’ve felt so awful...

Mostly, I wanted to know if any of them found joy again. I could never, ever get to sleep after.

Hm.

I’ll tell you what, my princess. I’ll spare you all that. Here’s my idea of an ending:

Sister Marlène _did_ return to Panglosse, undone by sunny days. The Duchess helped her laugh again, because it is never too late for healing. 

Sister Anna returned to Panglosse, too, undone by rainy days. She saw the woman Marlène had become, and decided to mother her anyway, because it is never too late for love. 

Our world is a world where such things can happen—all because someone like Saint Grandfather decided he could, indeed, fix his mistake. How is that? 

Ha. Good! Don’t we all...all of us, deserve a little happiness?

Sleep well, Honorine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** I realized I never updated this in September and that's no good.
> 
> A long one! And a strange one indeed. 
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


	4. SAINT ESTELLE: APRIL

**INTUITION ◆ WISDOM ◆ INSTRUCTION**

 _—So why do they...we...call them ‘saints’?_

_—Hm? Hm. I suppose they wouldn’t have explained it to you down at the royal shrine. Highborn folk say most saints don’t exist…_

_—Mother said they didn’t. Papa Galien sighed at her. Papa Ami just had more wine._

_—Nobles don’t believe someone can shine so brightly on earth that a part of them could join up with the heavens. She’s a very smart lady, your mother, and I’ll serve her until the end of my days or hers. But on this one thing, she may not be right. Don’t tell her._

_—I won’t. So...saints become stars._

_—Basically, little princess. Or their souls do. And sometimes it happens when they die, and sometimes before that. Saint Estelle led all her followers up into the stars when she was very old…_

***

...though, actually I think I’ll tell you the story of Estelle du Nord’s childhood instead. She was twelve or thirteen at the time and a shoemaker’s girl, and she didn’t have a destiny just yet. None of us do, in the beginning.

Little Estelle couldn’t even focus on her own two feet. Her mind tended to wander and her body, too, and it caused all sorts of trouble for her. When she delivered boots and buckles for her father through the Swamp Périlleux, she always lost herself in imagination, dreaming of the lullabies he still sung to her:

_The hare, he forged a rod, a rod,  
This rod, this rod had many moons,  
And when the hare king threw it down  
A tree, a tree of silver grew._

Then she would get stuck in the mud somewhere and needed rescuing. Her twin brother Allarde had to accompany her on her deliveries and drive her back to the main road. 

One day on her usual journey through the Swamp Périlleux with Allarde, however, something very hard hit Estelle on the head clear out of nowhere— _thunk!_

She picked up the scepter that had fallen into the marshy soil. It was about as long as her arm, and shaped like a flute. The fat opals inlaid on the scepter throbbed gently with moonlight, and there were hundreds of them, it seemed. Thousands, even. More gems than you could count in a lifetime.

_This rod, this rod had many moons…_

Allarde—a sensible young man—demanded that she put it down. (I have to say he was right: it is never smart to pick magic wands off the ground.) But Estelle couldn’t hear him. Only the scepter. 

It spoke in a soothing, motherly voice: _The life of a mage will become yours, Estelle. My brothers and sisters will fall to your will. You will reach thousands of your kin. You will stop their tears, Estelle._

It spoke in an urgent, fatherly voice: _They will ride with you to learn of light and darkness. Into the far reaches. Into the heavens. The skies. You will stop their tears, Estelle._

A spirit lived inside the scepter, you see. It gave Estelle a prophecy. She believed all of it. And so she had a destiny.

Though destiny, as you’ll find out, always twists to prove itself true.

***

After their delivery across the Swamp Périlleux, Allarde tried to convince Estelle to give him the scepter. It was dangerous, he said. He wanted to bring it to their village mages, who would know how to destroy it. But she insisted it was the Rod of Many Moons from their father’s lullabies.

A great row ensued—you know how it is with your own sisters, Honorine—and Allarde bitterly grabbed the scepter from her. 

Then it spoke to _him._ It told him that his world would plunge into ignorance because of his own actions—that he was dastardly and horrible. The scepter’s tone held an ancient hollowness. Allarde dropped it immediately, feeling as though he had been chastised by a grandmother who would never love him.

“No one’s ever called me great before, Allarde.” Estelle brushed the mud off the scepter’s jewels. “Especially not something like the Rod of Many Moons.”

But Allarde remarked, “Throw it back into the swamp!”

The scepter’s whispers wandered into Estelle’s mind, pleading with her: _The world is broken. You alone can mend it. A star will fall from the heavens to end it all, every life on the planet. But you alone can mend it. You can stop their tears._

Her brother tried not to cry, there outside the Swamp Périlleux. “Oh, you _want_ to keep that awful scepter—I just know it—even though it claims I’m some villain. Didn’t you hear it? Do you believe it?”

Allarde had, in the last few years, become a fixture at the local lecture-hall. He’d wanted to learn the secrets of light and darkness, to read the stars, to become more than a shoemaker’s son. Yet the scepter seemed to say it was all for nothing.

“I believe it’s the Rod of Many Moons,” Estelle finally responded.

The twins walked home in teary, frustrated silence.

***

Now, Estelle loved her brother like no person in Althussant loved anybody. When we’re young, though, we tend to be ignorant to the pain of those around us, if only because we haven’t yet grown hearts large enough to match our minds and bodies. She figured Allarde was throwing a tantrum—he did that often. She figured he would forget all about the scepter.

But he didn’t. Not once. He wanted to prove the scepter wrong, and so for years he studied philosophy, studied astronomy, astrology, the moon and stars and sun. Light and darkness.

But Estelle? Estelle _did_ forget about the scepter. Well, in a sense. Remember her nature, to wander away in her own imagination? She loved to daydream about her future as a mage, and so rarely even _looked_ at a book, despite the ardent, moonglow whispers that filled her mind. 

The scepter spent a lot of time in her underwear drawer.

When you’re young, Honorine, the idea of something—like your own fate—has so much more power than the reality of it. You can get lost in ideas forever.

***

A decade passed. While Allarde became a beloved professor at the Université Périlleuse, Estelle became an inattentive, unspirited mage’s apprentice. She wondered when the interesting parts of the old lullabies would show up in her life.

 _Where’s the silver tree?_ she thought, even into her twenties. She wrote letters to her brother and received no response. _Where’s the hare king? When do I get to be a planet-saving mage?_

She hadn’t learned anything.

For this reason, when her twin brother suddenly challenged her to a public quiz, he knew he would win. Oh, how Allarde wanted _so_ badly to have his comeuppance, now that they were all grown up! And, too, I think he wanted to hide the pain of losing his sister to the chatter of a strange swamp-scepter he hated. I always used to feel bad for him.

***

The event took place in the village where they’d lived with their father the shoemaker. For the whole day the magistrate asked poetic questions in the square. Questions such as, for example, “How brightly does the moon shine?”

That kind of thing sounds like a riddle to you and me, little princess. But questions like that _do_ have solid answers, and Allarde had every one. Even with the scepter’s guidance, Estelle failed to score a single point.

***

Despite losing, and despite all that had occurred, Estelle was proud of Allarde. She told him: “You learned about the light and the dark all by yourself, without having to use the Rod.”

It was true, too. All the hatred drained from Allarde’s blood. “There’s still time for me to become the monster it said I would be.”

Estelle responded, “I’ll watch over you. I won’t lead you astray. You never used to lead me astray, right? And you can teach me everything.”

But Allarde said, “What about the scepter?”

What about the scepter indeed! When Estelle looked down at it, a thousand facets glared back at her. She adored what the scepter had prophecized. Every night for a decade she dreamed of its words. In the end, though, it had driven away her brother.

***

The two went back to the Swamp Périlleux and, together, cast the scepter into the murk. Where it landed, a silver tree grew before them, its branches crackling and blooming. The gems inlaid in its bark looked like moons, and each moon had within it the shadow of a hare.

In awe, Allarde took his sister’s hand. She had been right all along.

“And yet neither of us are happy,” Estelle said. “I was right, but I was ignorant, too. I suppose both of these things can live in a single person. Do you forgive me?”

Allarde looked over at his twin sister, his start and end, his world. Moonlight, pure as little fat opals, glittered against their faces. He became Estelle’s first follower, don’t you know, Honorine—or rather they followed each other, side by side, two halves of a whole.

Like I said: destiny will always twist to prove itself true.

Good night, little princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** I'm back from my break! Hello. I hope you have been well, and, uh, not watching the news.
> 
> I'll be working only on this and ["The Tale Of Young Dust"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462214/chapters/67141417) until one of them is done. If I split my attention elsewhere, it's going to be years before I finish _any_ bigger story.
> 
> Also, if you know me, you know that there's a lot of references in this story. I like to hide some of my favorite pieces of media in the Starfall Deep Lore. :o) 
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


	5. SAINT MIREILLE: MAY

**CREATIVITY ◆ CONFIDENCE ◆ PERSISTENCE**

_—You can get magic from your star-saint. Monsieur Ferdinand the cook told me. If you’re born in January you’re fast like Saint Balthazar._

_— Ha. I wish! No, your personality, your...character, is different depending on your star-saint. If you were born in January, you’d be clever and you’d always crave freedom, like Saint Balthazar. It’s its own kind of magic._

_— But I was born in May. It means I’m a good singer. That’s what Monsieur Ferdinand said._

_— Well...in a sense. That’s Saint Mireille. She gifts all her children creativity, and confidence, and...actually, I think we’re just about up to her in our series of tales. Mind if I go ahead?_

***

Once upon a time, down by our stormy southern shores, there lived a luthier—a maker of lutes and other stringed instruments that only the very best bards can afford. His name was Jean du Pont, and he was the youngest of fifteen orphaned siblings. _Fifteen!_ The very thought gives me a headache...

At any rate, little Jean had two problems.

The first—

His fifteen siblings overshadowed him constantly, especially as they, too, were all luthiers.

Now, let me be clear: none of the du Ponts had more talent in luthiery than the others, Honorine. They all strung their violins with unicorn hair and dotted their cellos with the sapphire eyes of trolls, and the sound those instruments made...if I could hear just one ditty played with a du Pont lute, I think I’d go to my grave very happy. 

But, you see, Jean’s older siblings had something called _charisma._ Their passion was clear and their excitement was contagious and that helped them sell their instruments, even to people who didn’t really need them. The du Ponts were likeable and persuasive. Mostly.

Jean—well, Jean du Pont was likeable, too, but a shy boy rarely seen. No one knew much of him, and no one thought to buy his stringed handiwork. He even tried putting up massive signs outside the shop that said things like, _Instruments for the ones who need them most._ Trying to draw people in with curiosity and all. But it never worked.

That was his first problem. His second—

He had an issue with forgiveness. He didn’t forgive his parents for both dying, and he didn’t forgive his siblings for their natural charisma, and he didn’t forgive himself for lacking it.

So, unfortunately, he withered lonely and unseen. And, unseen, the best parts of us tend wither away. We humans enjoy our praise and notice. My mother used to say that we’re inherently selfish, but I don’t know if I believe that.

***

Little princess! Patience. The best and most heroic stories about the saints include the people around them, too. The people who affected them, gently, like a butterfly weighing down a dandelion.

None of us lives on an island. Except for people who live on islands, I suppose.

***

Now then—

By the age of eighteen Jean had become a vessel of envy and despair, all on account of no one paying much attention to his work as a luthier. His siblings noticed his lack of success and told him, on his birthday, that they would grant any wish he wanted. (They were likeable people, as I said.) But that poor boy—he knew nothing much would make him happy, and so he didn’t know what he really desired.

One night, he asked the spirits to give him some direction. And—wouldn’t you know it?—lightning struck just a quarter mile from his house at that _exact_ moment. The thunderclap rang in his heart, and he knew what to do.

Jean followed the smell of singed wood to a nearby meadow. There stood a woman his age, confusion weighing on her brow. Her wild hair fell nearly to the ground, and it was as blue as sea-dye. Even in the night, her locks shimmered. Even through the smoke, her body’s outline had a lightning-bright glow to it.

Because of that glorious hair, Jean figured she was royal, like you or your sisters or your mother. He bowed and asked if she needed assistance.

But the woman only said, “I’m Mireille Mirelle.” And that wasn’t any noble family he knew.

Jean led her back to the house he shared with his siblings and showed her to the guest room. In the morning, however, he discovered that the blue-haired woman had left without leaving so much as a kerchief behind. Not only that, she had taken all of his lutes from the storefront—his and no one else’s.

Believe it or not, little princess, he wasn’t upset. For a while, in fact, he felt appreciated, in a sad, strange way.

***

Then our Mireille became famous. Not as a thief, but as a traveling bard. Somehow, she found herself a troupe, and it was all history from there.

She could play her stolen lutes like no other who lived before her or has come since. People journeyed miles to just hear stories of those who’d sat within earshot of her band. She was rain and storm distilled into music. She was lightning and fire pulled into melodic, magnificent life. 

She was pure, wild, imaginative energy. And she knew it, from the moment of her birth near the du Pont house. Yet she was no less kind for it.

Mirelle is why all who are born under her constellation, in May, practically froth with creativity and confidence. Like a good ale. Or something.

(I really ought to stop trying to add more bits to the story than what my mother told me.)

***

Of course, Mireille was flawed, as well. We all are. She never told a soul where she acquired her infamous lutes, those instruments which could even convince the trees to dance.

When Jean heard tell of this through a long chain of gossip, hate again consumed him. That and a ferocity that felt like a third fist. He’d gotten overshadowed once more, this time by some magical lightning-girl who hadn’t the sense to send him a _thank you._

He called down his siblings and asked them to make good on the birthday promise they’d gifted him long ago. He told them about the woman he refused to forgive. He told them what he wanted. 

Reluctantly, they agreed to it.

***

The du Ponts chased Mireille across Althussant. Across the whole continent, even. For the better part of a decade, she escaped their grasp every time—until she didn’t.

Jean caught up with her, finally, in the midst of a heavy winter in the north. It kept Mireille and her band snowed in—and yet not Jean, who was dedicated to his cause, or his siblings, who were dedicated to him. They trudged miles through seven feet of snow to get to the inn where she stayed.

Then Jean cornered her in the stables.

Mirelle, however, was fearless. She told Jean: “The sign above the lutes said _for the ones who need them most._ That meant me, didn’t it? It was a prophecy. It was the only thing I could think about when I got here. It was the only way I knew how to live in this new world. It all felt right. So I took them.”

Jean said, “I don’t care about the thievery. I care that you never thanked me once.”

“I thought a luthier who made lutes of prophecy would know his work was appreciated,” Mireille responded. “Would you repair them? They need their father’s touch.”

Ah, but isn’t that always the case, Honorine? When you assume you make an—actually, I’ll let your Aunt Val teach that one to you.

***

At that moment the hate didn’t rush out of Jean, but the energy to upkeep it did. He thought: _She may look like a woman, but she has the mind of a child._ There was nothing more he could do. Nothing he could teach. No way to discipline her. So, when all the snow had melted, Jean and his confused siblings went home.

For many years after, Mireille visited his shop to have her lutes repaired, which provided Jean great acclaim. In that time the young luthier won back Mireille’s trust and her respect, but never her forgiveness. After all, it wouldn’t take back what he had done, chasing her for most of her life. Forgiving wouldn’t heal her wounds. And—as my mother would say—if it does not heal you, it hurts you, and you mustn’t think of it any longer.

It was much the same with Jean, who had never shown kindness to anyone since his childhood and didn’t start with Mireille. Yet they thrived together. Sometimes we must, with people who have wronged us. Sometimes the justice is that no one is hurt further. 

It’s a very saintly thing to know.

Good night, Honorine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** Those Vocaloids, man.
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


	6. SAINT BERNADETTE: JUNE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit gross in terms of mild gore and nasty things done to a skull, but is still PG-13, I think. Just kind of icky, in a folkloric slapstick way. Still, boot yourself out if you need to.

**SIMPLICITY ◆ MODESTY ◆ SENSITIVITY**

_— Auntie Val? Where’s Auntie Mar?_

_— Not feeling well, sweet girl. Hasn’t been a good week for our Mar. But she’ll kick back soon. She always does. She sent me to tuck you in._

_— Oh. She was going to tell me a story. About the June star-saint._

_— Sorry. Here, I’ve brought my notes on crop yield and that’ll surely put you to sleep within the hour—_

_— Don’t you know the story?_

_— Well, she’s the smarter one, so I listen to everything she tells me, including tales of...star ghosts and such. But that doesn’t mean I know the story._

_— Try?_

_— I’m not great at talking in front of an audience. Althussian isn’t my native language and…oh, look. Suddenly I’ve forgotten all of it. No speaky Althussian. Me need translator. Help._

_— Bah. June star-saint, please. Try._

_— You’re just like your mother, you know that? Royalty…_

***

_Tach taa, tach toraa…_

Old habit. It’s something we used to say before a story, in a place where I used to live: _This once happened, and will happen again._

Despite everything, I still think there’s truth in it.

***

Fine, fine! The story.

Saint Bernadette was the June one, right? Bernadette de Leon? 

Why am I asking you?

Let’s pretend it’s Saint Bernadette and you can fling me out the window if I’m wrong.

***

Bernadette de Leon, now—they were infamous because they got decapitated and yet lived for years after.

It happened like this, or so I’m told: Bernadette was a soldier, but not well-suited for it, being sweet and very polite and all that. One night, their comrades’ nasty songs distracted them, and the enemy snuck into their camp, and…

Well, only the blush on Bernadette’s cheeks remained afterward, hanging in the air above their shoulders. This was all during the Wars of Joy, some six or seven centuries ago.

Incidentally, people in real life generally don’t keep living after you remove their heads.

***

When bashful Bernadette returned home from the Wars of Joy, they found themselves with a spare head they no longer needed. (Yes, they kept it. No, I don’t know why. Listen, alright?)

They set it on their bookshelf. They set it on their desk. They used it as a pillow. They even tried hanging it in their grandmother’s garden, which sounds like a fantastic way to get maggots in your begonias, by the way. But nothing seemed like the correct use for a rotting skull. 

Bernadette, who was apparently weird as all get-out, decided all of this was a sign. They thought: _I can’t keep my head for myself. I ought to donate it to charity._ Even as a young person and a farmer’s child, Bernadette knew there were needy people in this world.

So, with the winds as their guide, off they went to find a proper place for their old head.

***

The white wind sang _Four, four…_ and led Bernadette to the mountains in the west. Out in those mountains there lived many-headed, many-handed giants. The greatest of them all was a warlord with four heads who could see back and front, left and right. If this doesn’t seem anatomically possible to you, you’d be correct, sweet girl.

Anyway, this warlord lost his front head in some idiot conflict or another, and Bernadette offered to give their own unused head to him. In return, he swore never to shed blood again.

Yet Monsieur Warlord immediately used his new skull to rampage across the Althussian countryside, _because of course he did._ He never shed blood again, see—he only burned down houses and stole sheep with his one hundred hands. Don’t you just love smart-arse little clods?

Embarrassed, blushing, Bernadette demanded the head back. Though it was no longer theirs, they refused to let someone use it like that. But the cruel warlord simply kicked it across Althussant and went back to the mountains.

***

The blue wind whispered _Three, three…_ and took Bernadette to where their head had plopped down by the waters of the Saintsborne.

There they discovered that two turtles had pulled it from the reeds. These turtles had given it to their hatchling, who had been born without a shell. It was a lovely fit—the hatchling’s feet poked out of Bernadette’s old nostril, and its eyes peered out from the skull’s left ear.

Once again: anatomically impossible. Turtles always have shells. Those are their _bodies._ Without shells they’d simply be, I don’t know, soup. Pre-soup.

But, yes, so—I suppose Bernadette decided that this was a fine use for their old head, since they meant to head home after this. As the turtles played in the river, however, fish nibbled on the hatchling’s head-shell, picking open holes in the skin. Bernadette, struck by greed and fear, took it away from the turtles and ran. Shame boiled over in their veins.

***

The red wind wailed _Two, two…_ and took Bernadette upriver, right here to Auradou.

In the neighborhood of Dovetide, where your Auntie Mar was born, Bernadette met an old fisherwoman in a mourning tunic at the docks. The fisherwoman explained—

No, I’m not doing a voice, Honorine—

Oh, fine.

“My love drowned in the Saintsborne,” said the fisherwoman. “I miss his kisses and the softness of his cheeks.”

Now, this gave Bernadette an idea. (Unfortunately, it was the worst, nastiest idea in recorded history.) They gave this fisherwoman their head. Despite the fact that the head resembled, at this point, a lump of low-grade filet mignon, this lady thought it looked like her dead beloved. Rather rude thing to say about your partner...

For many weeks, the fisherwoman spent all her waking hours doting on the head, sleeping with it, etcetera etcetera. All seemed well, and Bernadette was at first satisfied with their choice. Eventually, though, the decapitated soldier grew sore. Marlesse never said why, but I can imagine that, you know, seeing your own dead lips on someone else’s? Probably somewhat traumatizing.

Again Bernadette took the head back, feeling quite bashful.

***

The yellow wind cried _One, one…_ and brought Bernadette south, in the lands of House Picotin by the shore.

As it turns out, Duke Picotin was marrying some boring baroness or another. His bakers had created a single cake about as tall as this castle, which is not at all a waste of food, and had searched high and low for a topper that would suit the bride and groom.

By chance, a few of the bakers ran into Bernadette on the road, and brought them to the duke. He thought the consensually-given head of a fellow Althussian would make a _perfect_ cake topper. If your mother ever says something like that at your wedding, beat her to death.

Our pal Bernadette helped clean the head and place it atop the cake, and then, after the ceremony, the entire duchy dug in. But Bernadette’s time was a time of famine, and the Picotin folk tried to eat Bernadette’s head with the cake, too. Unable to part with it in such a way, Bernadette stole their head back yet again.

Don’t ingest human flesh, by the way. You’ll get diseases in your brain.

***

The winds had run out of direction for poor Bernadette. All four had fallen quiet, their colors muted.

Grieving at their own selfishness, Bernadette arrived at the Lionseye Sea, which was as wide as the number zero and about as empty. They had tried their hardest to provide charity but, in the end, could not find themselves charitable. The connection to their old head was too strong. They loved that dead piece of flesh, despite everything—how could they ever give it away?

In frustration and sadness, they threw their head out into the sea. 

The tides carried it inexorably away. 

They panicked, for a moment, then watched it go. The blush on their cheeks faded to a simple streak of red. There was nothing more to angst over. They couldn’t remember why they had ever been so greedy.

And for the rest of their life—even into sainthood—the very charitable Bernadette never thought of their head ever again.

***

_Tach taa, tach toraa…_

Wait. Are you asleep? Begged me for a story, then couldn’t even stay up for the gory parts. The things I do for you...

Well.

Sleep deeply and happily, my niece. And remember to be good to your Auntie Mar for me. I can’t always be around to protect her, you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY:** Concept: Drunk History, but it's just Val.
> 
> ✨ [[see the full SecStar timeline](https://secondstarfall.com/index.php/Official_Timeline) | [check out the SecStar wiki](https://secondstarfall.com/)] ✨


End file.
